Letters
by pretentious-emo-kid
Summary: HarryRuth, multichapter. Rating may change later. Post 5.5. Harry and Ruth write to one another.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Seriously – I am carrying on with 'Keeping Chickens' and will be updating soon, it's just that other ideas keep bugging me.

Okey poke. This is set any time after 5.5 that you imagine. Adam is still alive, and has arranged for Ruth and Harry to correspond. The first letter is hers.

Chapter One – Missing you

* * *

For my dear friend,

It's funny. I've been desperate to talk toyou for so long. Ever since the butterflies went away, and the terrifying unknown road ahead became the path of everyday life. So, when it was suggested by our mutual friend that I write to you, I jumped on the idea. You can't blush in a letter, or stammer. You can cross things out, add things in – conditions even I can flourish under.

Yet even so, now that I sit here, pen in hand, I can't think of a thing to say. I can't tell you about the people that I have met or the places that I have seen. I can't even tell you where I am. What else is one supposed to include in such a letter?

Start me off, my dear friend. You were always good at that.

Be sure to destroy this.

- - -

For my long lost love,

I know that it is difficult to speak in metaphors and euphemisms and hints – you have always been frank. But despite the less than desirable circumstances of our arrangement, your letter was very gratefully received. It was short and awkward, but it was almost like hearing your voice again, and despite the terrible day that I'd had, I stood in my kitchen, and I smiled. And you're wrong; I knew every place that you stuttered, every word that brought a flush to your cheek and every alteration that you agonised over; and I loved it.

I also know exactly how you should begin. I don't care that you can't tell me specifics. My days are filled with specifics. I just want to feel as though I'm with you. I miss your company so very much.

Sometimes, when I am working late, I forget for a split second and find myself wondering why you haven't barged in balancing a cup of coffee, and a stack of forms for me to sign. Other times I am all too painfully aware that there is no dark head bent over your desk. That I am all alone.

So, tell me what you ate for breakfast this morning. Tell me what book you're reading at the moment. Tell me if you've been ill recently. Tell me how you feel when you wake up, what you think when you go to bed.

Let me see your life.

All my love,

x.

- - -

For my dear friend,

Without telling you where I am, I can tell you that I got in late this evening, and nearly trod on your letter. However, with a little quick footwork, I managed to avoid doing so, and instead took it into the kitchen. I didn't open it immediately.

Without telling you my new name, I can tell you that I first went to the cupboard, pulled out a bottle of scotch, and poured myself a glass. There was no dog to nuzzle at my ankles, but I now felt close enough to you to look at what you had written.

Without telling you whether it's hot outside or cold, I can tell you that I cried when I read it. I cried at its beauty and its sincerity. Then I set it alight and watched the paper curl to ash, knowing that the words would be with me always.

This morning I had dry toast for breakfast – I was in a rush. I am rereading Jane Eyre. I had 'flu last month and I spent almost a full week on the sofa, doing absolutely nothing.

When I wake up, I miss you. When I switch the lights off and lie alone in bed, I miss you more.

Count how many times you thump your desk in frustration this week – I want to see _your_ life again.

- - -

For my long lost love,

You wrote that letter straight from your heart to the paper, didn't you? You hadn't forced one word.

I was sorry to hear you had been ill. I hope there was some well-meaning young man who telephoned you day and night, and took your temperature regularly. I hope someone is looking after you. I am at least grateful that you spent your time doing something other than working – it seems you are at last learning to indulge yourself. About bloody time is all I can say.

Oh, and you will be glad to hear that I am reading this in the bath with a glass of red wine – carry on indulging yourself.

In answer to your question, I thumped my desk twelve times this week. I also shouted without complete justification seven times, and threw one very expensive desk ornament at the wall.

How many pieces of paper will you reduce to shreds this week, I wonder?

X

- - -

For my dear friend,

There is a well-meaning young man, you will be glad to hear. He is a sweet thing, and he kept a very watchful eye on me when I was ill. However, he's not _quite _right for me, I don't think. No doubt you're glad to hear that too…

I cannot believe that it has slipped my mind for so long, but I haven't asked how my cats are doing. Has the dog taken to them?

I did endeavour to keep a tally of the bits of paper that I absentmindedly destroyed this week, but then I shredded the tally on the bus, so I gave up. I am sorry, but then I suppose that that little story is enough to satisfy your curiosity anyway.

Thank you for the glass of wine, by the way. I find myself somewhat rushed off my feet of late, and it was very welcome. Can I request that you read this one in bed with a nice cup of tea? I promise that it will be your turn next.

I watched a documentary about Paris yesterday, and thought of you. How many innocent young women have you terrified on the bus lately?

- - -

For my long lost love,

As requested, I am reading this letter in bed, cup of sweet, milky tea in hand. I even have a copy of Jane Eyre beside me. She reminds me of you.

About your cats, the moment I got them home, they made the place their own. I get the feeling you may have spoilt them a little. As for the dog, it doesn't really have much of a choice.

It's funny that you should mention the Paris documentary; I recently found myself being angrily berated for apparently lacking a spirit of Atlanticism. The woman doing said berating was less than impressed when I grinned insolently back at her. I was thinking of you. (It was a strictly professional conversation, by the way – no well-meaning young women for me. And you were right, I was glad.)

Regarding my public transport exploits, unfortunately the bus company withdrew my right to travel with them after the last occasion, so you can proudly claim to be the one and only woman this weirdo has harassed on the bus.

I miss you, ------. I wish I could write your name there. I wish I could say it. Whisper it in your ear, alternated with kisses. I wish I could say to you what you told me must remain unsaid. I wish…

But wishing gets us nowhere. Regrets do not change the past. So instead I ask you, on Thursday, at eleven p.m. GMT, listen to Lillibullero. Don't ask why – you'd only laugh. Just make sure you're listening when I am. If I can't be with you, ------, I'm damn well going to achieve the next best thing.

My love entirely, forever and always,

Your friend. X

- - -

My long lost love,

It has been three weeks, and you haven't written.

I'm sorry if I upset you with my last letter. I look back now and realise that I must have sounded selfish - this must be much harder for you than for me. I want you to know that appreciate the sacrifice you made for me more than you can imagine.

Please write; I'm worrying about you.

Yours always. X

- - -

My long lost love,

Our mutual friend says that he has heard nothing from you. We are both worried about you. Please contact one of us.

X

- - -

Message sender: StarlightElectricals

Dear Miss Rosetyne,

We have not received your payment. Please contact us within twenty-four hours to discuss this, or we will be forced to take necessary action.

* * *

End of chapter one.


	2. Chapter 2

Adam swirled the honey coloured whisky around in his glass, determinedly not looking at Harry.

He had discussed matters of a somewhat personal nature with his boss before, but this was different. It was Harry they were talking about – Harry and woman, for that matter.

Harry and _Ruth_, for that matter.

"You never explained why it was you who was monitoring her, not Zaf."

Adam's eyes remained on his glass. "Just an extra precaution," he explained quietly, "Zaf knows the legend, and I know the locations. Even her own side couldn't find her unless we both told you what we knew."

Harry nodded, and placed his own glass on his desk.

The silence of the darkened grid was smothering as they tensely awaited the telltale beep from Harry's computer that would accompany a message from Ruth.

"I don't suppose," started Harry, after a short pause, making Adam start, "You're planning on doing that. Either of you."

It was almost as though there had been no gap in the conversation, but Adam could hear the tension in his superior's voice. Not quite anger, not quite worry, not quite a threat, but instead something of all three. He looked up and met Harry's cool glance.

"Harry, we gave her twenty-four hours. If she doesn't reply, I'll call Zaf, but not until then."

Harry's tone remained even. "I could call Zafar myself."

Adam didn't bat an eyelid. "Of course you could." There was a hint of impertinence to his voice. "But a name isn't much use without an address."

Harry couldn't help but raise his eyebrows. He sometimes forgot just how good a spook Adam Carter was. Never for long.

Adam noted the gesture and smiled a little to himself before adding, more gently than before, "Ruth doesn't exactly walk into trouble with her eyes closed, does she? Give her the credit she's due, Harry."

Harry didn't respond, but Adam thought he saw the slightest movement in his neck. Something like a stiff nod.

They let silence fall once more, and watched the minutes tick by on the desk clock.

"Harry," started Adam, after about a quarter of an hour, "I know that the contents of those letters was personal –"

Harry winced inwardly as Adam spoke. Those flirtatious, loving, intoxicatingly uninhibited letters contained some of the most personal words he had ever exchanged with another person. They were the words that could never have been _spoken_ in a million years. The words he called to mind in moments when he needed light in the darkness. Now he would have to pick over them, entirely without sentiment with this other man. It made him feel dirty.

"– But can you think of anything," Adam was still talking, oblivious to Harry's silent self-disgust, "_Anything _at all that might help us. Just in case Ruth…doesn't reply."

Harry seemed to be looking straight past him as he spoke. "We…didn't speak about specifics."

"I know, but…"

Harry didn't hear what was said next. He already knew what Adam would be telling him. We all give things away by accident. A person just needs to look carefully enough.

He recited through the letters in his head. Nothing struck him immediately, until a certain phrase suddenly jumped out at him.

"A man," he said quietly.

Adam regarded him carefully. Harry was not the sort of man who let petty jealousies cloud his judgement.

"A man with 'a very watchful eye'. Might be nothing, but it's somewhere to start."

Adam opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut off by a shrill alarm from the desk clock.

Midnight. Twenty-four hours since they'd sent the spam message, and no reply.

Harry shrugged on his coat and threw a set of car keys to Adam. "You drive. I'll phone Zafar on the way to the airport."

Adam pulled his own jacket on. "How good's your Polish, Harry?"


	3. Chapter 3

It was comforting, talking themselves into Ruth's flat. It gave them something to focus on.

But once the landlady had let them in, they were left alone in the small entrance hall, silent and worried.

Adam cleared his throat, and in the crushing emptiness of the flat, the sound was startling. Harry turned to face him immediately.

"We should check the rooms for any sign of what's happened," he suggested.

Harry nodded tightly.

"It's possible that her cover was blown and she had to run, of course," he pointed out, his voice quiet and grave. "The landlady said that in the two weeks since Ruth disappeared from the building, no one else has come to the flat, didn't she? It seems to make sense that if someone took her, they would come back and cover their tracks."

His calm tone gave this idea a veneer of reason, but Adam could hear the desperation in his superior's words.

"Harry, if something like that happened, she'd make contact with me or Zaf. She knows she's being monitored closely by us."

Harry didn't argue with this, but simply marched through the door before them, heading straight into the living area of the flat.

"I'll take the bedroom," he stated.

Adam nodded, knowing that he would never be allowed into such a private place. Harry wasn't just Ruth's ex-boss; he was protector of her honour, preserver of her memory. He was…God only knew what he was.

- - -

Harry's throat constricted tightly as he stood in the bedroom. Ruth had clearly tried to keep the space impersonal, probably so that she wouldn't get attached. However, she had left unmistakable traces of herself nonetheless.

The sheets smelt of her perfume; there was an empty mug on the dressing table with a picture of a cat on it; there was a towering pile of paperwork on the bedside table.

And then there was the bookshelf. She had built up an admirable collection for someone on the run – Frankenstein, Shakespeare's sonnets, The Iliad, The Odyssey, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Tess of the D'Urbervilles, Shakespeare's sonnets, Dracula…

He sighed. There was nothing in the room that was of any help. He had sifted through the papers, checked under the mattress, behind the mirror; all to no avail. Wearily, he went to help Adam with his own search.

- - -

Adam was stood on a chair checking a light fitting.

"Anything noteworthy in the bedroom?" he asked without turning.

"Nothing."

"Well," said Adam, stepping down from the chair, "I can't find any evidence that she was being watched. No bugs."

"She would have noticed that anyway," pointed out Harry. "It's why this makes no sense. Even before all of this, she kept paper in her door, for God's sake. She'd have been even more vigilant lately."

"Yeah, but Harry, she'd also have been more alone and confused than ever. That would have made her vulnerable.

Harry didn't reply, but simply carried on searching.

- - -

Twenty minutes later, they stood by the car, re-grouping.

"I don't want to sound defeatist, Harry, but we have almost nothing to work off. There's a chance –"

"I know," interrupted Harry. He changed the subject quickly. "Was it Zaf who chose the legend?"

"Yeah. Harriet – his idea of a joke. Actually, I think his first idea was Beatrice – something suitably Shakespearean – but then he couldn't resist making a reference to you."

"Shakespearean?"

"Yeah, you know. Beatrice, really strong woman character in Much –"

Harry cut him off again.

"No. Shakespearean. There were two copies!"

And with that, he took flight, running as fast as his legs would carry him in the direction of Ruth's flat.

- - -

He reached the front door in almost no time. Behind him, he could hear Adam arguing with the landlady, who was gesturing furiously at Harry, crying _'__Nie rozumiem! Nie rozumiem!'_ He ignored it all, focusing only on forcing Ruth's door open once more – no time for the delicate approach this time.

It took him a matter of moments to reach the interior of the flat, and only a second more to reach the bedroom.

Once there, he grabbed both copies of the Shakespeare book from the shelf, and began to flick through them.

"Here!" he cried triumphantly, just as Adam joined him in the bedroom.

"What is it?"

Harry read aloud from Ruth's handwritten message.

_I oft think of their love, comely English forests._

_Me? Since we lately have held metal beliefs._

_For shame, it's been Masonic._

_And though quite without proof, I am sure of these things._

_And though quite without proof, I am sure of these things. _

_-R_

Adam dug quickly through his pockets before pulling out a pen and passing it to Harry.

"Thanks," murmured Harry, quickly turning his attention back to the book.

_**I**____oft __**think**__ of __**their**__ love, __**come**__ly __**Eng**__lish __**for**__ests._

_**Me**__? Since __**we**__ lately __**have**__ held __**met**__al __**be**__liefs._

_**For**__ shame, __**it's**__ been __**Mas**__onic._

_**And though quite without proof, I am sure of these things.**_

_And though quite without proof, I am sure of these things. _

_-R_

"I think they're coming for me. We have met before. It's Mace. And though quite without proof, I am sure of these things." Harry's voice grew graver with each word he spoke.

He and Adam looked at one another, suddenly very, very worried.

"I'll call Ros and the others," said Adam.

"If it's Mace," started Harry – and the words were killing him – "It might already be too late.


	4. Chapter 4

**Back at home – 10 hours later**

Harry blinked hard as he slid the key into the lock.

His senses felt deadened and numb as he fumbled with the small piece of metal; his mind might still be whirling around at an incomprehensible speed, but his limbs had stiffened with fatigue, and there was a throbbing ache burning just behind his eyes.

The team had spent the early hours of the morning trawling through all the files they had concerning both Mace and Ruth, liaising with any contacts in Eastern Europe who might be able to help. They had worked and worked and drawn blank after blank. In the end, Ros had taken it upon herself to order both Harry and Adam home to _'for God's sake, get some sleep – you're no use to anyone in this state, no use to…her'_.

And now Harry found himself dazedly shaking his head as he swung the front door open.

It hit him immediately nonetheless – even in his muffled state – someone was in his house.

He crossed the threshold quietly, cursing his own slightly clumsy movements as he did so. He could see through a crack in the doorway of his study that his desk lamp was on. Whoever was waiting for him was waiting in there.

Rolling his eyes and massaging his temples, he clicked the front door shut. He knew that he had pulled this trick on other many a time, and he really should have expected a taste of his own medicine, but not today. Not _this _morning.

He threw his keys into a bowl on the side. Frowning at Scarlet's peacefully sleeping form as he passed her basket; he crossed over to his study, and taking a quiet breath, entered it.

"Good evening, Harry."

At the sound, Harry felt rage pulsate immediately through his body, starting from the pit of his stomach and trickling out to his fingertips. He could have put his fist through concrete at that moment. But he knew that he couldn't let it show. It was a battle of wits he'd have to win this time.

"Oliver."

For a moment, both men regarded one another blankly, with eyes like black holes.

But the moment passed quickly. Harry loosened his tie, and settled on the small sofa on the other side of the room, not once taking his eyes off of Mace.

"You fed my dog?"

"Well, I'm not a complete pig," replied Mace with a dry smile. He was sat at Harry's desk, flipping through some leaves of paperwork he had found in one of the drawers.

Harry suspected that he had been there for quite some time. The thought made him feel sick.

"Not a pig, no," Harry said, returning the smile with one of his own – an acidic expression that didn't reach his eyes, "More a snake, I think. Or a rat, perhaps, or vulture. Or one of those disgusting things that live in lakes. What are they called?" He frowned for a moment. "Ah, yes. Eels."

Oliver's grin remained unaltered. "You _are_ venomous without your afternoon nap, aren't you?"

"Only honest," replied Harry, putting on an admirable show of cheeriness. "Venom was always more _your_ forte. What have you been doing with yourself lately, anyway?" he added pointedly, dangerously.

Oliver raised his eyebrows at Harry's tone, but answered anyway. "Put it this way. For every _dastardly deed _I've performed, I've secreted a hundred insurance policies in various places."

In his mind's eye, Harry saw – for a fraction of a second – the black, leather-bound notebook which, at this very moment, sat in a safe deposit box.

"I suppose that was only to be expected. So, you cut a deal?" His tone was queasy as he posed the question.

Oliver nodded, and interlaced his fingers. "I told a few tales, named a few names, and in return for my cooperation, I was flown out to a lovely, warm island to live out my days in quiet disgrace."

"Drinking cocktails and seducing naïve waitresses – that sort of thing?"

"Naturally. And I was rather enjoying it all, truth be told."

Harry frowned. This conversation was not going as he had foreseen; he had expected threats, blackmail. It was too much of a coincidence that Mace was here _now_, and yet, he seemed completely oblivious as to what was going on.

"I'm getting bored with this now, Oliver." He leaned forward in his seat as he spoke. "I know you have Ruth, and what's more, my team knows it too. Now, I will not hesitate to kill you if you don't return her immediately."

Here, Mace displayed an expression which Harry could not remember ever seeing on his face before. It was complete and utter confusion.

It was the expression of a man who didn't know what was going on.

"Harry, I don't 'have' Ruth. I don't know what you're talking about." His frown deepened. "I was here to ask you for a favour."

"A _favour_?"

"Yes." Here, he reached into his coat, and withdrew a slim file. "I brought this with me as a bargaining chip."

Harry didn't need Oliver's next utterance to put the pieces together. He only needed to see the edge of the photograph sticking out of the pale binder.

"I was going to help you clear her name."


	5. Chapter 5

And for anyone interested, a new chapter of 'Hide and Seek' in next couple of days if all goes to plan. 

---------------------------------------------------------------

Ros Myers was – for what felt like the hundredth time that morning – delving through Mace's file. Harry had used his clearance to allow the entire team access to the most sensitive areas of the ex-spy's history, and it was colourful, to say the least, but there didn't seem to be any particularly promising leads as to what may have happened to Ruth.

It wasn't how she liked to work; she preferred to be out in the field, doing something which those who occupied positions higher than her own would have referred to as 'proactive'. She hated being sat around like this, but with so little to go off – they couldn't even be one hundred percent sure that Ruth had actually been taken, in fact – there wasn't much else that she could actually do.

She was about to revisit the most vague part of the file – the part about the Cotterdam incident, conveniently – when her phone rang.

"Harry?"

"_Ros, I'm going to meet you in the basement holding cells in fifteen minutes."_

Ros frowned delicately.

"I seem to remember advising you to get some rest, or something to that effect. Nice to see that you took that advice."

"_Ros, I'm serious. I'm bringing someone in and I need you to meet me. Don't mention it to the others."_

A brief pause.

"Fine. But I warn you – if, during this secret rendezvous, you're anything less than gentlemanly, I'll head straight back to the grid."

There was no reply, but just before the soft clicking sound of him hanging up, Ros could have sworn that she heard him smile.

- - -

Oliver's brow creased in confusion as Harry hung up the phone.

"Why are you calling Myers?"

Harry didn't turn to face Mace as he answered, but instead kept his eyes on the telephone, smiling slightly to himself.

"I like my team, Oliver, and I especially like Ros. That's why I'm going to give her an early birthday present."

- - -

Harry watched Ros as she looked through the two-way mirror.

"Can I be honest?" she asked.

Harry regarded her as she wrinkled her nose in distaste. He grinned.

"Are you ever otherwise?"

She did not turn from the glass to look at him, but her face did momentarily relax into a smile as she murmured, "Well, if I needed assurance that I was good at lying…"

She took a breath, and pursed her lips once more.

"…But seriously, Harry; I don't like this one bit."

Harry held her gaze coolly as she finally turned her head and regarded him. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest.

"I haven't told you what 'this' is yet."

"I can put two and two together myself," said Ros. "Because there's Mace with a smug grin on his face, and there's our big, heavy, locked door, and here's us. Add that to the fact that Ruth's mysteriously disappeared, and the only message she managed to leave us mentioned _that_ bastard – it doesn't take a genius to guess that he wants some sort of protection."

"Correct," replied Harry.

"Why?" asked Ros, raising her eyebrows in disbelief.

"He'll be in our debt."

"Something like that means nothing with Mace. He just takes what he can, where he can."

"And of course," added Harry, "You have a slightly more _personal _grudge against Oliver, don't you?"

Ros' head snapped back to look through the mirror. "I might have…"

"…Played straight into his hands? When you reported Ruth, I mean."

Her eyes narrowed, and Harry knew that, had he been anyone else, he'd probably be pleading for the safety of his testicles right now. As it was, he was the boss. He liked that fact sometimes.

"I don't appreciate being taken for a fool," mumbled Ros, finally.

Harry smiled sweetly, an edge of amusement in his eyes. "I know that. It's why I asked _you _down here."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, being as though I had already made the same character assessment on Oliver that you had, I decided we should see how his story stands up to _proper_ questioning – just to be on the safe side. You're going to do the questioning."

"How long do I have?" asked Ros, an impish grin spreading across her features.

"An hour, at the most."

Harry span on his heel as Ros flexed her fingers. Just before he reached the door, he turned back.

"And Ros? As this is all strictly off the record, I've switched the cameras off. Just thought you'd like to know."

Ros watched Harry exit the small room, and allowed herself a few more seconds to regard Mace through the glass, this time with her new-found perspective on the matter. She couldn't help but notice that Harry had left his coffee behind.

And that it was still steaming hot.

Her grin widened – nobodytook Rosalind Myers for a fool.

- - -

Thirty-seven minutes later, Ros swept into the meeting room, where the others had been pooling their scant ideas. She noted with a grim sort of satisfaction that Adam was still absent. He, at least, was getting the sleep he so desperately needed.

The entire team looked up expectantly as they heard her enter; she supposed Harry had given them a little background on the situation.

"I'm ready to brief you all," she announced. "Mace's story holds up…"

- - -

_Ruth regarded the person across the table with complete and utter incomprehension._

"_Aren't you hungry, Ruth? You haven't touched your breakfast."_

"_None of this makes any sense. We barely knew one another." _

_It was as though they were having two completely different conversations._

_Her captor laughed softly. _

"_That isn't to say that we didn't know _of _one another. Just about everyone in the world of espionage knows your value when it comes to getting to Harry Pearce." Another laugh. "Don't go getting vain now, my dear. This really is all about him."_

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Next chapter – Mace's story…


End file.
